


no one goes to kabukicho when they're happy

by hesperia (erythea)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Angst, Body Horror but like only for a second, Corruption, Deepthroating, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gags, Light Bondage, Loss of Virginity, Multiple Sex Positions, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Alternating, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Fingering, references to solomon, references to yan qing's interlude but no real spoilers, takes place between ch9 and ch10 of shinjuku, water margin references, yan qing needs to fuck to remember who he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26492902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erythea/pseuds/hesperia
Summary: In the streets of Shinjuku, Yan Qing can't beg for mercy. He makes Ritsuka give it to him.
Relationships: Yan Qing | Assassin/Fujimaru Ritsuka
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	no one goes to kabukicho when they're happy

**Author's Note:**

> Working with the Japanese fanon that sex helps Yan Qing remember himself and keep the Doppelganger at bay. (it's a throwaway line in the death jail summer escape event but that's not important)
> 
> Also working with the fanon that the magical spinal fluid is a hell of a drug.
> 
> There are some Water Margin references here. I choose to interpret Lu Junyi as Yan Qing's father figure, since... Yan Qing is literally his adopted son. I also like the idea that Yan Qing was secretly in love with Li Shishi but couldn't be with her, so that's here too. But don't worry, this is still Yan Qing/Ritsuka!
> 
> There's a lot of feelings and other ideas I wanted to tackle in this one, but um. In the end, it is shameless porn. I just wanted to write Yan Qing railing someone in a seedy motel.

The digital numbers across the room tell Ritsuka it's midnight. Hardly helpful; the blinking zeroes say the clock's been reset. It's dark outside, but Tokyo was long abandoned by the dawn. She recalls Archer’s warning: the sun never rises in Shinjuku. For warmth, people turn to small rooms and neon lights. Loneliness is physical. A demand to satisfy.

Ritsuka is cold. Her body, naked. The bed, big enough. She lies there, gagged and bound with her wrists above her head. The last two things she remembers before the smell of chloroform: her hands on bare skin and the evening breeze in her hair. She feels the chill of the air conditioner between her legs and she decides that the wind feels better when she is untrammeled and unbound.

Where are her Servants now? She almost mistakes a peek of the angry red glow of a sign outside for a riot, a declaration of war. Anything could happen in a city of chaos, but what scares her is not fire.

It's the sound of running water.

The chains clink against the bed's steel frame. If she was a better mage, she thinks, she could cut through the restraints. One burst of mana and she's out the door. So she fires, each shot a laser of concentrated energy down metal and leather. Each shot breaks down and bounces off as sparks of light. Shiki makes it look so easy—one glance, one slice, freedom. Ritsuka can't even scratch at where she hopes the Lines of Death would be. Biting down on a whimper, she fires another blast of mana.

The shower stops.

“You know you can scream, right?” a voice from the bathroom starts in a drawl laced with blood and wine. “Too bad nobody can hear ya.”

 _Assassin?_ The name she knows trembles in her throat like a small creature ready to leap out of her mouth.

“Do me a favor and stay where you are,” he says. “I'll be with you in a minute.”

The rustling of towels and clothes, the unlocking of a door. Her chest heaves as it contains her rabbit-thumping heart, sending blood down a body she can't move. Instinct tells her to run, but all she can think about is how he can hold her down before she can claw her way out.

Assassin steps into the orange light, his shadows looming over her like the dark clouds over the city threatening thunder and rain. The tips of his jet-black hair drip onto his smooth skin, thin rivulets of water cutting across the red flowers and blue dragons painted over a body sculpted by war and discipline. All she has to show for her efforts are weary eyes and faded scars. Saving something is never beautiful.

But he is. His gaze is a handsome jade dagger he throws across the room, and Ritsuka can hide neither fright nor anticipation. From his smirk, she knows this is his doing: her skin, aching for someone’s touch; her core, hungry for something that will fill her; her mouth, watering for a desire she has yet to know. What does she know? She wishes she was a better mage. Her teacher said something about magic crests and pedigree.

“Sorry,” he says. She can’t feel the weight behind it. “Can’t exactly move now, can you?”

Ritsuka shouts and squirms, but leather burns against the skin and wraps around her limbs with a viper's grip. The dragon on his chest seems to bare its fangs as Assassin draws closer, the mattress sinking with his slow, tortuous crawl. The towel around his waist slips off his skin, and Ritsuka lets herself catch only a glimpse of his nakedness before looking up at the ceiling. The boys at school weren’t like this, strength and swagger and sinew. Assassin is a little older. Thicker.

Her Servants would never allow this. Reason doesn’t think of wet skin and taut muscles and how they are about to touch her. Instinct is a different beast. It stares her down. It licks its lips. Assassin knows how easy it is for him to pry her open and suck her dry. Others at Chaldea have certainly tried, but they can’t pin Ritsuka down the way he does, like a butterfly on a mount after he has suffocated it. She has already begun to trickle, a clear nectar from her entrance, so he spreads her legs apart like wings on display. He is the flower on his chest. The broad-shouldered, tattooed cage over her heart.

She swallows hard.

“It’s alright. I won’t kill you.” His teeth shine like the fangs of a wolf. “That’d be too easy.”

Ritsuka looks at him with panic in her eyes, her words reduced to a sharp inhale and a muffled shriek. Saliva coats the ball on her tongue and dribbles down her chin. She wishes she was a better mage. Her teacher said pedigree didn’t matter.

“You don’t look half bad, if that’s what you’re worried about. Ain’t like I go around fucking whoever I want. Aren’t you special?”

Her chains clash against the rails once more—a rattling he hushes with his weight on her hips. Rough hands soothe the pebbled skin of her breasts. She whimpers. This is all new to her. Is this what everyone wants? He kisses her neck and gets the flavor on his tongue. She turns away. She thinks she is nothing to want for. There are better flavors, better women. But she can still see the empty vials on the nightstand, still taste their red, cloying fluid in her mouth, and she wonders if it is to blame for the way they look in the light.

To Yan Qing, there’s no illusion.

The Master of Chaldea is not innocent, but she is a blank page. Untouched. Untainted.

“Don’t be like that, sunshine.”

He likes being the creator. He holds the brush that draws the sharp arch of her back. He sculpts the way she tightens in his hands and mouth. Characters paint the story, but authors carve their endings, so he writes a paradise on her ear, each word a streak of wet, warm ink.

“I just thought you’d help me.”

Because it's not like he can ask.

She shudders, skin warm against his mouth. He's hungry again, so he swirls his tongue around a breast’s tender peak. He tightens the circles he traces on pebbled skin as her nipples tighten in the wet warmth of his mouth. He tugs her nipples with his lips, holds them between his teeth, and tortures them with a sensation that paints her red-hot and spit-wet.

“You like doing that, don’t you?” He draws her hips closer, hard shaft on hot core, rough hand on the tail of her spine. “Helping people.”

Ritsuka shivers and moans, but it's not that she likes it. It’s not that she likes this feeling of drowning in heat. Yan Qing can see it in her eyes—she opens for him because it’s like coming to the surface to breathe. She obeys him because she knows what's good for her. He knows what that’s like.

“I guess we’re just doing what feels right. You—” His lips smack with each red blossom he makes on her skin. “—and me.”

Tattooed hands follow the shape of her and her breath trembles and hitches. _What do you want from me?_

Yan Qing's laughter is the crack of thunder that precedes the jolt of pleasure down her back.

“It's getting a little crowded in my head now, see?” he breathes on her tender chest, sticky and sweet. “All these damn voices think they’re the boss of me. Don’t think my mind knows who’s who anymore, but my body’s gotta…”

Even in her pleasure-addled stupor, she looks up at him with doe-eyed worry. Will she look at him like this when he is over? Something like a laugh escapes him. It’s almost fond.

“What’s the matter, sunshine? You think I’m crazy?”

Ritsuka, hair splayed across the pillow and body soaked in sweat, shakes her head.

“That’s right. I’m not. I can’t be. I mean—” He snorts, locks like ink spilling from his shoulders. “I’ve got it all, right?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I mean,” he says, throat tight. “don't you know who I am?”

Her lips part, and Yan Qing begins to change shape.

A doll, a Servant, a man with blood on his hands — different limbs and different faces flicker into view, vying for control. They make a chimera out of him. They cut him up and sew him back and the needle hurts each time it digs into his mind, calling him names that are not his. He loses his grip and they take him apart, contorting him into their twisted, unrecognizable likeness.

“I am—”

He claws into the pillow as he digs through the memories. Name, name. What’s in a name? If he would be called by any other name, would he still be as sweet? Yan Qing laughs bitterly. Shakespeare is in chains as he should be.

“I am…”

He clenches his jaw, tears streaming down his cheeks as the past and present slip through his fingers. He knows what this looks like. A servant is still a servant. A monster is still a monster. Even at the end of the world, he is wrong and Heaven is right. The weak are forced to sin and left to die.

He yells to no one.

“I am—!”

Then, the contortions stop.

Yan Qing is back, but he feels younger. He hates that. He sees his fading memory — the pain of an empty stomach, the dragging of bare feet across dirt streets — and it is raw in the marrow of his bones. A man in a carriage calls him family, but Yan Qing knows he is not his son. Yan Qing is small and weak. He searches for power. He looks at Ritsuka like she’s something he can gnaw on until his teeth fall out. His fangs need the space.

And then, she has the courage to meet his eyes.

And then, she is warm with tears, trembling with emotions he can’t place.

Silly girl. What is she crying for?

Suddenly everything is pushed to the margins of his pages, watered down to numbness by the light. Impossible. The sun never rises in Shinjuku. Warmth is artificial. Loneliness, physical. Something satisfied and shoved aside.

She’s so beautiful.

Yan Qing frees her mouth. Takes her by the tongue. Sucks out all the flavor like a piece of gum. Devours it as if sinking his teeth into her innocence, filling her with all this filth. Filth — that’s what they used to call him. The things you are born with never go away. He will always be nothing. She will always be everything. The least he can do is lick their wounds and, for one night, forget.

This is not her first kiss, Ritsuka wants to think. It’s something mouths do when they are lonely, so she closes her eyes and lets it happen. Hunger dribbles down their chins. It doesn’t stop. Assassin can’t get enough. She gasps for air, and thin silver threads form and break as their lips part.

“Assassin, please—”

He takes Ritsuka by the chin and it’s as if her heart is in his hands, beating against his grip like it wants to be wrung dry.

He looks at her like he’s seen her bleed. She thinks he's already bled himself out.

“Master of Chaldea,” he sighs like it means something. “You don’t have to be so good to us.”

His hands follow the contour of her stomach, the dip of space between her thighs.

“Pitying us when we've done nothing for you.”

His fingers, she finds, are thicker than her own. They sink into her slit, slick with the mess she’s made of herself. He traces a ring around her entrance and she whimpers for less, then more. She thinks he’s done this before. She doesn’t know. This has nothing to do with being a mage. She heard those were bred to perfection.

“You’ll just make me fall for you.” His smile is almost tender. “You don’t want that.”

She takes him to the knuckle.

Her moan is hot like smoke in the air, thinning the oxygen around her. It’s hard to see beyond sweat and spinal fluid. Where are they? Where is he? He curls his digits into the spot that makes her drip onto the sheets, and the tight shapes he traces on her walls draw out a keening noise. She can feel herself coating his fingers with her own scent, and her thighs attempt to flutter shut, but the next weak protest is quieted with a meeting of lips. A voice spills from her mouth.

She tries to feel contempt. Otherwise, sympathy. Otherwise, something primal that lurks in the back of her gaze, dark and waiting.

“Don’t be shy," Assassin laughs, and she hates how the drawl of his words makes her trickle down his fingers. “I get it. Saving humanity’s hard work. You must be tired.”

Ritsuka feels her throat tighten and ache.

“Stop it...”

“Why the tears, sunshine?” he murmurs as he breathes her in: sex, sweat, and skin. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anybody.”

For some reason, she believes him. She sobs. She wishes she were a better mage.

“He had to do it,” she whispers, desperate for others to know their story. “He said he’d save everybody.”

“But that wasn’t very fair of him, was it?” Assassin laughs again, the sound bitter in his throat. “Emperors, kings, lords and masters — they think they can do whatever they want.”

It’s not like that, but he seems to understand. He wipes her tears, kisses her cheek, and in that moment, she thinks loneliness is something he can satisfy.

“Don’t think about him anymore,” he murmurs into her ear, searing the words into her memory. “It’s just us now, okay?”

The next kiss is full on her open mouth. Red-hot, spit-wet. Her sounds rise with the heat in her core, matching the intensity of his fingers pumping fast and hard. They encourage her hips, and so does his voice, describing all the ways he could be inside her. The noise of flesh mixes with the stench of lust. He leans over her like a painted sky, muscle and ink reminding her what he is capable of.

It’s heaven. She feels like drowning again. She breaks another kiss to gasp for air. Her hands above her head try to grasp something in her search for purchase, but all they can manage are the fraught half-moons she digs into her palms as her walls clench around him. She shuts her eyes and she can see stars. There is no reprieve. All she can think about is this relentless, raw sensation that sets her on fire.

Then, she is empty.

Assassin’s fingers shine deliciously in the light, so he laps the taste up, licks it off his lips. Concentrated mana. Ritsuka knows the sort of power a mage can give a Servant, but the thought of magic is far from her mind when she sees his tongue and the ways it can move. He catches the dripping taste of her from the knuckle. He sucks on his fingertips and savors it. He licks between his digits, laughs with delight, and she presses her knees together.

“Is it—” she heaves, throat dry and bangs wet and matted against her forehead. “Is it over? Are you feeling better?”

All he does is smile.

“Why the rush? We’re just getting started.”

Assassin drags himself up, and Ritsuka’s eyes widen as her breath touches the skin of his hot, rugged cock between his tattooed thighs. He strokes himself with the same wet fingers, demonstrating the weight and girth of him. Her mouth waters. This will fill her. This will make her whole. She knows she should fight this, but she is lonely, and his body is warm. Her tongue runs up the underside. She wants to be satisfied. His bitterness is already on her lips. He said he needed help, so who is she to refuse?

Does this make her a better mage?

She can’t help herself.

Yan Qing doesn’t even have to ask.

Ritsuka has no experience, but she learns quickly. Yan Qing tells her to run her tongue up where he likes it, lingering just before the blunt head, and she sucks the velvet skin glazed with precum. She teases him with aimless desire, but only because she has trouble taking him with her wrists bound. He helps. He tucks her hair aside and guides himself to her lips, his hips at just the right angle, and he thinks she sees her eyes fill with desire. Does she like it that much? He thinks he is nothing to want for. There are better flavors, better men. It’s the spinal fluid, he tells himself, but a part of him wants to believe there are still people foolish enough to love him in the dark.

She gags the first time.

Yan Qing combs his fingers into her ginger hair and tilts her head away. She coughs, and for a moment, he has the heart to worry.

“Careful, now.” His voice is strangely gentle.

“I can do it,” she says, gasping for air and covered in sweat. “I’ll do it.”

It’s always like this. He has permitted her to breathe, and she foolishly thinks he is kind.

He licks his lips. Well, it’s always better if she wants it.

Slowly, without prompting, Ritsuka swallows as much as she can, and he leans against the headrest to watch her take him to the hilt — to the back of her throat. Her lips close around the shaft, caressing vein and velvet skin with her mouth as she begins to bob her head to a rhythm. She slurps up the salty taste of it as she wraps her lips around his cock, and he swears in what he thinks is his native tongue. Maybe she knows him now. Maybe he wants her to.

Maybe she hasn’t noticed. Her lips travel down the length of him so closely, so dedicated to the obscene sounds of her mouth, she can barely focus on anything else. He begins to buck into her, and she watches his hips work in morbid fascination, watches his muscles tighten and flex as he fucks her throat, the designs on his skin dancing along with the rhythm as if they were a separate sort of beast. He hears her legs cross and shift behind him, and he grips the headrest to brace himself. Sweat moves in rivulets down his chest as the sounds of her name and his breath fill the air.

Then, a silence.

Then, a shudder as he makes a mess of her mouth.

He paints her tongue white, makes it dribble down her chin, and he wonders why he didn’t do this before. This is what Kabukicho is for.

But before Yan Qing can tell her to spit, she swallows.

Amusement tugs at the corner of his lips. He should have expected this.

The Master of Chaldea is a girl who will continue to lose everything. She desperately fights for what she can still have. That’s the sort of person she is. That’s the sort of people they are. He, too, knew a man who could save the world.

And then he was gone.

It’s bitter, but Ritsuka gulps down every last drop. She hates letting things go to waste, and she won’t let Assassin feel like he is. His erection slips out with a pop, and she takes the time to catch her breath. She blinks through the sweat, eyes bleary as she looks up at her captor.

Assassin’s lips part. The silence that hangs over them colors Ritsuka’s cheeks despite herself.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She shakes her head, even if it’s true. Even if _he knows_ it’s true. Even if they liked it—

“You don’t want this either.”

It’s not like they asked for it.

“I know this isn’t you,” she says. “I just want to make it good for you.”

His kind doesn’t do this. Not outlaws like him. When he speaks, she thinks she knows who he is and she wants to believe it. Glory painted across his chest. Justice painted across his back. If she wishes on a hundred stars, will it come true? She tries to focus on his face and he is dazzling in the light.

Assassin leans in and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. His gaze is fond, she thinks, as he caresses her face with an overwhelming tenderness.

“You're too soft, Master of Chaldea. You saw it yourself, didn’t you? Soon, I won’t have a face. I won’t even have a name. You can’t trust someone like that.”

Her eyelashes flutter as she flits between embarrassment and nervousness—a feeling placed where other emotions should rightfully be. She searches for them in balled fists and gritted teeth, but anger is not something she feels when someone begs for mercy.

“If you’re the person you say you are,” Ritsuka says between steady breaths. “you would’ve already gotten what you wanted.”

Outlaws don’t care about things like chivalry or honor or who strikes first. They take what they can and leave nothing behind. If her Archers were here, would they save her? How many people need to save her before the world is satisfied? Warmth, they tell her, is something seized and shoved aside. It never stays.

“It's not like I want you to die.”

Her throat is sore, but she pushes the words out. She has to be a better mage.

“It’s not like you’re not worth it.”

Yan Qing is not used to this.

He’s not used to the understanding that comes from experience. The kindness that comes with privilege. He’s not used to women crying for men who don’t deserve it. He isn’t anything as great as an assassin with a hundred faces, nor a noble warrior of the mountain, nor a man who can grant serenity with his accursed arms. No one calls him their friend. No one calls him their son. The only one who values his life is—

Yan Qing laughs, the sound like steel blades ringing as they're drawn from their scabbards.

“You’re one hell of a gal, you know that?”

They can pry her out of his dead hands.

Ritsuka is no longer in chains. Yan Qing is below her now, hands in her hair and chest flush against her breasts as he takes her reddened lips over and over. She kisses him back. She kisses him like she wants to soak up the memory and set it in stone. She holds his jaw and drinks from it. He is used to giving and taking, but receiving will always be new to him. No one has ever felt like they owed him anything.

But Ritsuka keeps giving. She straddles him now, fingers splayed across the flowers and dragons in his chest as if to tell them they're hers. They're good enough. He watches her hover over him, the glimmering, golden shape of her guiding his length to her slit, and he sighs as she takes him inch by inch, lowering herself until she has him to the root. She trembles. She is full. Her breaths rise and fall with the swell of her breast, and she thinks this is enough.

But Yan Qing sits up, and Ritsuka starts to panic.

“Wait, I can do it,” she protests, pushing him down to no avail. “Let me do it!”

“You’re adorable.” He pulls her onto his lap. “I toldja not to make me fall for ya, but that’s just how you are, ain't it?”

He hushes her, wraps his arms around her waist, and wonders if this is what he's been searching for. The memories are a blur, but the emptiness is clear, and when she fits him so perfectly he thinks he won’t find anyone else.

“Let's do it together,” he tells her, the words hot on her neck. “I'll make it good for us. Okay, sunshine?”

Ritsuka shyly traces the petals on his chest and mumbles his name, and Yan Qing remembers a past love. She, too, touched him like this and gave him the world. He couldn’t give her anything — nothing she wanted — but now that he no longer has the burden of duty and honor, he finally remembers what he felt when he left her.

He just wanted to hold her.

Ritsuka doesn’t know what time it is. All she knows is the smell of the sheets, the sweat on their skin, and their utter loss of inhibition.

The character for righteousness is painted on muscle and drenched in sweat, and it is half the view Assassin gives Ritsuka as he sits on her thighs and presses the head to her slick entrance. He tells her it'll feel better than the last few times, tight and raw, but she thinks he doesn’t want to see her. Like he’s ashamed of himself. Like he’s making up for something. She won’t push it. He’s already begun to put it in, and she can already taste what he means.

She has become acutely aware of every inch of his skin, the ink of it. Like this, she sees everything: his sculpted back arching to the rhythm; the muscles of his thighs as he readies his hips; the head of his wet cock pushing into her aching cunt. He slides in, spreading her wide, slow and careful. Then he thrusts himself in, and all she can do is scream. It hurts. She’s never done this before, but she knows it gets better. When it does, her legs tremble. She cries out his name. When he’s done with her, will he tell her what it is? His hips are frantic, flexing the ink on his skin as she clenches around his cock. She throws her head back and squeezes him dry. He calls her Ritsuka, and she feels him come in ropes, pouring in and oozing out of the glistening rim of her. The worst part is she knows it isn't over, and is glad for it.

Assassin slides out, and she licks her lips as cum dribbles down the shaft. He only needs her until he can feel like himself again, but she’ll never feel the same. Is she a better mage now? She’s never tasted anyone so wonderful.

It’s only a matter of time.

Yan Qing knows all stories have to end. This world, too, will meet its fate. But he thinks his plans have changed. Ending it all sounds boring now, professor. He’ll give Ritsuka back soon. He just wants to milk this for all it’s worth.

Why should he kill a virtuous creature? He remembers Song Jiang’s words, and he thinks he finally knows what he means.

Now, where did he put those vials?

Ritsuka can’t breathe.

She is on her stomach, begging for release as Assassin wraps his strong arms around her neck and shoves himself deep into her core. He moves at an excruciating minimum, dragging his cock out until it tugs at her tight hole, then lowering his hips deep into her, thrusting himself back into her pink, tender slit. She is no longer afraid, but she cries all the same. It's all she can do under his bones. She drools from the corners of her lips as she keeps her mouth open for every moan he fucks out of her. She can't help it. His cock scrapes against her walls on each thrust and her entrance drips each time it takes him to the hilt, the pleasure heady, sweet, and raw.

“Assassin, please,” she pleads. “No more…”

“No more… what?” He sucks on the shell of her ear. “We're making memories, right? I'm just making your body remember mine.”

He pricks her arm with another vial of spinal fluid. The mana is delicious. She clenches down on him, whimpering in pain, then ecstasy, and his laughter makes her shiver in delight.

“You liked that? You’re so cute.”

As Assassin remembers himself, Ritsuka feels herself slip away. Why was she here? Why was she crying?

Why did she ever want to leave?

She must be a good mage.

He’s so handsome.

“Kiss me,” he says, and she does.

It’s been hours.

Yan Qing has Ritsuka right where he wants her. She no longer asks if it’s over. Neither does she worry about Chaldea. She’s high on adrenaline and spinal fluid, but she’s happy. This is happiness. No one is crying, and all they can feel is the joy of being touched and the dream of lasting forever.

Tonight is not their happy ending, but he isn't worried. Bodies remember everything: comfort, loneliness, and the desire to be satisfied.

Ritsuka moans as she sucks on the tender peak of Yan Qing’s flushed chest. Slowly, her tongue swirls over the stiff nub, drawing circles around it, rolling it back and forth. Her hand is busy with the other side, tweaking it between her fingers. He hums in pleasure, threading his fingers into her hair as he pushes her bangs back for the show. Soon, her lips smack apart, and saliva trails from her mouth to the peony on his breast. She meets his eyes, and the look on her face is feverish. Ravenous. She keeps her gaze half-lidded and steady as she flicks his nipples, and she feels him harden against her skin.

“That’s good,” he sighs. “You’re so good at this, sunshine.”

“Are your memories back yet?” she asks, hoping for otherwise.

“No,” he lies.

Ritsuka sucks in a breath and sinks back onto his thick, wet cock, muttering words of admiration as she threads her fingers into her ginger hair.

The sun never rises in Shinjuku, so Yan Qing takes all the warmth he can get.

**Author's Note:**

> [What Song Jiang said,](https://i.imgur.com/or0MJAM.png) for reference.
> 
> Follow me on twitter @ [erythean](https://twitter.com/erythean?s=09)!


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